


Unspoken

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Between Seasons/Series, F/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-17
Updated: 2010-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack needs to mourn for Daniel. Sam lets him. Set sometime after the end of Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

  
The sun was slanting into her open garage door, low enough now to become an annoying, almost-horizontal glare as she knelt beside the Indian. Since she'd lived here, on the days that it was warm enough to comfortably work in the garage with the door open, she'd used the impending sunset as the signal for dinnertime. Sam wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and put down her socket wrench. She looked around. That must have been a knocking at her next door neighbor's, and not at her door, after all. She'd thought distantly that she should get up and check, but she was at a touchy spot, a tricky balancing with the new chain guard, a spot where she could have used three hands getting the bolt seated, and she'd ended up ignoring the knocking.  
She squinted against the sun and turned to pull out a drawer on her organizer, just behind her, and pick through the collection of washers.

Hesitant footfalls on the driveway. She turned her head. Someone was standing in the open door, silhouetted in the sunset light.

"Hi?" she said, shifting her weight, then standing. Ouch. She'd been kneeling a little too long.

"Carter."

Oh. It was the colonel. It had been her front door after all -- the site of the knocking.

"Sir."

"Knocked on your door. When you didn't answer I figured this was the next likely place, since your car was here."

He was just standing there. She couldn't see his face, but he sounded tired. She got up, bent for her rag, wiped her hands.

"Sorry; I didn't hear you knock. I mean, I heard something, but if I'd realized it was you knocking I would have..."

He was coming closer, and his dark silhouette resolved into color. He looked as tired as he'd sounded. He was holding a bottle of whiskey by the neck, and he had something in the other hand. She tilted her head. He was cupping two shot glasses. She frowned and checked his face again. Just tiredness there. Nothing else. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the Indian.

"Whatcha working on?"

"Let's go inside," she said. Awkward, to carry a bottle and two glasses like that. She turned toward the small door, which led to the kitchen walk, and she hit the wall control and brought down the big door with a smooth rumble. She could feel O'Neill following her. She didn't look back.

She went right into the little, neat kitchen and washed up. He put the bottle and the glasses on her bar and his hands in his pockets. In the clear indoor light, no glare, he looked indefinably rumpled. Kind of as if he'd slept in his clothes. His clothes weren't wrinkled; nothing so obvious, but he had that air of numb distraction and disorganization she associated with all-nighters.

"Are you drunk, sir?" The question was cautious. She hung the towel back on its hook.

"Not so's you'd notice."

She glared at him. If he'd driven drunk....

His expression sharpened into a protest. His hands came up. "Really. I'd tell you. Besides. Driving drunk is against the law."

She folded her arms. "Whatever you say, sir."

He leaned his hands on the bar, shifted his weight. His shoulders came up toward his ears. "It's Saturday. We're off duty. Call me Jack. Or at least O'Neill."

They went through this same formula every time the team got together off duty. It was always hard for her to remember to do it, the military discipline automatic now, but she always managed to make the switch and stop calling him "sir" when he reminded her. Just now he'd made the request as if by rote. He always had to ask. Every time. And he always did ask. She'd never pointed out that no matter what he said to her about using his first name, he always called her Carter. On duty or off. She could count on one hand the times he'd called her Sam. But he always gave her "Jack" as an option, in his formulaic request.

He'd moved on. He was pouring. It was the black label Bushmill's. He filled both shot glasses. She sighed. He glanced at her, then his tongue came out and touched both his lips as he carefully, almost methodically, put the lid back on the whiskey bottle.

"What's the occasion, sir? Jack?"

"No occasion." He slid one of the shots a little toward her.

She waited. Something had brought him here, and she figured she knew what. But it would be good if she waited for him to say it first.

He raised his shot glass. He said it. "To Daniel. And his glowingness." He held the glass, watching her, waiting.

Tears started in her eyes, a sudden appearance that surprised and angered her. Stupid tears. When she cried, it always felt like it happened without any warning at all, always completely blindsiding her. Why couldn't she get hold of that reflex? Why couldn't she control it? She hated that about herself. Whatever it happened to be that made her cry, it always came out of nowhere. She'd think she was doing fine, and then someone would speak something or touch her at the wrong time, and all of a sudden her eyes would be wet. Not even burning, just wet. Her throat wouldn't close; she wouldn't feel like sobbing. But the tears would come, as if emerging from somewhere beyond not only her conscious control but her entire awareness. Coming at her from outside. Dammit. She ignored them.

She took a deep breath and met Jack's eyes. He was still holding out his shot glass toward her. He wasn't crying. He looked solemn. She didn't wipe her eyes or turn away or anything. She felt one tear slide loose. She kept looking at Jack. She cried because he's said Daniel's name. And that, at least, she could understand.

"To Daniel," she repeated, and she looked down, which made two more tears roll free, and picked up her glass. They both tossed back the shots. The whiskey was so smooth -- a cliche, but it was. Smooth and just a little sweet. She'd always liked Irish whiskey better than Scotch.

She put the empty on the bar upsidedown, smiling as she remembered Indiana Jones' girlfriend from that movie, doing the same thing, but with two dozen shot glasses. Silly.

Jack was just standing there. She let him remain a solid, tall blur in the corner of her eye as she moved around the kitchen, finding some newly-purchased little rounds of cheese, individual bites bought on a whim, in their pristine mesh bag in the fridge, a box of sundried-tomato-flavored Triskets. A sharp knife. An apple.

If they were going to drink and reminisce about Daniel, she wanted food. To cushion the whiskey. It was a full bottle he'd brought. It was good to know why O'Neill had come over.

She tucked a cutting board under her arm and led the way through the dining area to the living room, knowing, again, that he'd follow, and not looking back. He didn't offer to carry any of the snacks. But he brought the whiskey and the glasses.

She sat on the sofa and methodically arranged the food on the coffee table. The colonel turned on a light. Then he said down

O'Neill. Jack. Whoever. This man in her living room was peeling the wrapping off one of the little bite-sized rounds of cheese.

"I shouldn't be here. I realize that," he said, enunciating carefully.

He really was drunk. She worried, suddenly, for him. Driving over here like this. Reckless. Wrong of him. So maybe she could slow him down, get some water or some soda into him instead of just Bushmill's. And food. Plenty of food. The snacks were a start. She could order a pizza. Memory stabbed her. Usually they ordered pizza when the team went to his house. Daniel loved anchovies and the colonel hated them. Memories of bickering from days gone by.

_Twining 'round my heart, like the fond hopes that die._

She said, "It's okay." She bit off the sir.

They meditatively ate some food. It seemed to focus him. She realized she was starving, and methodically sliced up the apple into segments and cut out the core and devoured half of it. With cheese and crackers. Peeling the little mild cheeses out of the wax was annoying, but it gave her something to focus on while she stopped the whiskey from going to her head.

O'Neill munched for a while, then poured them both another shot of the Bushmill's. She sipped hers. He tossed his back. It worried her all over again.

"Carter," he said, looking at his glass, rolling it in his fingers. "I just." He sighed. It was like he was making himself speak. "I just want you to know that I'm glad you're here. I don't tell you that often. In fact, I try too hard not to tell you. Hell, it's usually my goal to not let you even know. But I am. Glad." He met her eyes. He looked pained.

She made herself smile at him, and something swelled in her chest. It was hard for him to say, but he wanted to. She toyed with the apple debris. They were all a little raw, these days. Even Teal'c. She couldn't be annoyed that he'd made her cry, toasting Daniel. It was a good thing, to cry for Daniel.

"I know you're glad," she said. Again, she had to stifle the "sir."

"You do?"

"Yeah."

He looked so shocked, so receptive, that she felt she needed to try to put more of it into words; describe what it was that she knew. She didn't like talking about it. She probably didn't like talking about it as much or more than he did.

She'd talked about it sometimes, of course. Just not to him! To Janet, in veiled flirting gossipy warm half-telepathic conversations, and to Chris Ann, in echoing rambling conversations bounced off satellites, Sam curled up on the sofa, Chris Ann in her cottage not far from CalTech, the haven she'd never left, holed up forever in academia, yet so happy to follow Sam's adventures from afar.

Yeah, she'd talked about it. She wasn't in denial or anything.

But not to O'Neill. The two of them were forbidden to talk about it, but most of the time she was okay with that, and beyond okay. Comfortable. Settled. Knowing, and feeling, that it was better for them both if they didn't. And from the day the Tok'ra delegation had gone down in blood, they had actively, she was sure, tried even harder not to talk about it or even know about it, or think it at each other. They needed, above all, to be professional. He was protecting her career. She was as sure of that as if he'd told her. But he didn't need to tell her a thing. She'd spent her whole career watching the strange uncomfortable dynamic of women officers adapting to a system they were not designed to be part of, and alongside that, she'd spent just as many years rolling her eyes at the dynamic of women in science.

Being around the SG-1 team, finally working with three men who really accepted her, let her do her job, let it not be an issue all the time, was one of the warmest and most fulfilling experiences she'd ever had. Let alone the amazingness of the work itself, of the adventure they were all on.

No, she and the colonel didn't talk.

But today, he wanted to. She considered how it made her feel. Worried, grateful, flattered, flushed and uneasy, all at the same time. She wished she could get back to her usual control. Daniel's ... leaving ... had dislodged something, rearranged her coping skills. It was hard. She swallowed.

"I know you're glad I'm here," she repeated. "I know you care. It's fine."

"It is?" He still sounded confused. Surprised. She looked at him, frowning. Whatever was going through his head, it was entirely different than what was going through hers. He'd just said he tried to keep her from seeing his regard for her; he probably thought he'd succeeded. Maybe he tried harder not to think about them than she did. And she was sure he didn't talk about them. Well, almost sure. Maybe to Daniel.... She couldn't go there right now. Confronting the colonel like this was hard enough.

"Yes," she nodded emphatically. She met his eyes, then veered away. She fumbled for some more crackers.

"Cuz it doesn't feel very fine today," O'Neill said.

"Sir." He frowned. She hastily amended: "Jack. It's fine. Really."

"So you know," he said, accepting. She nodded. "How I feel," he continued.

She nodded again. "We covered this," she said, gently. "A while ago."

"Okay." He inhaled, let it out. He seemed to relax.

Sam realized her heart was pounding but her tears were dry. She looked around the familiar room, lamplit now. She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she rearranged some crackers and cheese on her corner of the tray. She took another sip of whiskey. It felt better in her belly now; warm and cozy. Jack's presence seemed to fill the small room. This was exactly why he never came over here alone. She was so aware of him. Her skin could feel him, through her clothes. Her lips could feel him. She drank down all the whiskey in the tiny glass.

Jack said, "I got really angry." He was looking toward the front window, but she could tell he was seeing a memory. His eyes were distant. "I got really angry when Daniel...." Sam held her breath. "When Daniel left." She released it. He'd found a word. He hadn't said Daniel was dead. She liked the vagueness. "I got really angry at a lot of things, but I got angry with myself too. I hope he knew--"

She panicked then. She felt it as a white, cold burst in her chest. She couldn't do this for him. She could barely handle her own grief; she couldn't handle Jack's. She couldn't do this. But he'd come to her. He wanted to talk to her. She sat still, just felt it, let the panic take her and then ebb, felt it drift coldly down her arms and into her pelvis the way she never felt it under fire, never felt it offworld no matter how many Jaffa were chasing them. There were tears in Jack's eyes, now, she noticed, with a new cold stab to her sternum, and she knew exactly what he was talking about, what had made him cry, because it was exactly what she'd said to Daniel herself, the last time she'd spoken with him. That you had to tell people. That you had to let them know.

Maybe that was why he'd had to come to her, to do this. Not to one of the guys. She reached through the ebbing cold white fire of her panic and put her hand on his knee.

"I told him that. That exact thing."

"What?" Jack said, meeting her eyes, then, pulling his gaze away from the memory, and not caring that his own were swimming.

"Before he left. While he was in the infirmary. Before dad came. I told him that we shouldn't wait to tell the ones we love" -- and her voice only broke a little -- "how we feel until it's too late. I got a second chance with my dad, you know. That... I think, I think that taught me alot."

She looked down at her hand on his knee. He was wearing jeans. He was warm, under the faded smooth fabric, and he warmed it. He was warm and alive and it was his flesh, his body, under her hand. She wasn't supposed to think about this. This desire she dared to share only with old, dear girlfriends. She tried not to think about it alone. She tried not to let it interfere with the more important things that were always right in front of her and O'Neill and the team. She had to keep it aside, keep it hidden, just the way the colonel did. Suspended, both in time and in space. But no less real for being a thought without an action. A wondering, a feeling, without a matching external reality.

Some of the realest things in her life were invisible. Intangible. Abstract. She smiled.

"I told him. Jack." She met his eyes again.

"Good. That's good." In his turn, he looked down at her hand on his leg. He put his hand over hers, and her eyes followed his touch. They sat there, suspended, touching, caught in the sunset light, orange and fading, slanting through her window.

He took his hand away and poured them another couple of shots.

"To second chances," he said.

"To second chances," she echoed, and tossed back the whiskey. She could feel it spreading through her body, now. Spreading warmth comfort, spreading relaxation and a tingling kind of peace along her arms and legs.

She really needed to eat some more, or she'd get drunk. His leg had been so warm under her hand. He'd put his hand on hers. She couldn't think when the last time was that their hands had touched. They never shook hands. Maybe brushing, handing over tools or a chunk of C4. She considered him, his dark eyes, lined with sadness now. Gray hair, clean shaven cheek, clean shaven even on a Saturday. He was so goddamned handsome. All of a sudden, she felt fiercely, wildly possessive of him. He was hers; her CO. Hers. That was real too. She and Teal'c got more of him than anyone else. Herself and Teal'c... and Daniel.

She sighed into the warm silence. She did not want to get drunk with Jack, alone. She was pretty sure that if she did, she'd do things she shouldn't. Things he'd probably enjoy, and things she would enjoy, but ... he never came to her house alone. He was right to say out loud that he shouldn't be here.

"I'll do things I shouldn't if I get too drunk," he observed, distantly. It made Sam laugh. For once, he read her thoughts. He looked at her, and he let his eyes get soft, let his expression change. It made her melt inside. God, yes. He was hers. He said, "You know all the things I want to do. Don't you. Carter. Sam."

"Yeah," she said. "I know."

"That's good."

She let herself look, let herself enjoy the expression on his face, let herself trace the column of his neck, let herself look at his hands, resting on his knees, his strong beautiful hands, surprisingly soft. Let her gaze drift -- only drift -- over the soft bulge in his jeans. She made herself return to looking at his face. He was smiling a little, knowing she was looking.

"Second chances," she said, a reminder, keeping her voice light.

"Or first chances," and God, he was still flirting, still looking at her with his heart in his eyes. She was warm all over.

"When the time is right," she said.

"Yeah," and he shifted on her sofa and looked at his hands again. Maybe it was a promise, maybe not. But words were somewhere in between concepts and actions. Not quite substance, but not abstract either. Words. She found, though, that this time they hadn't really given her any more information than she already possessed. She had been right in what she'd told Daniel: That if people didn't know you cared, you needed to show them. With words. With actions. But what Jack had just told her? She didn't need to hear it at all. How funny was that. She closed her eyes and remembered the touch of his hand on hers. She opened them again. He was still looking down.

"So," she said."Pizza."

"Pizza is always good," and he grinned at her, that boyish friendly grin, the real one.

She turned to reach for the phone, and let herself imagine the hug she'd get when he left. Later tonight.

Yes, tonight, she insisted firmly to herself, hitting the speed dial and listening to the phone ring, feeling Jack watch her. Not tomorrow morning. Because he shouldn't have come. She'd have to insist on tonight. Not all night.

"Pike's Pies," the guy on the other end of the phone said. Daniel always liked pizza.

end


End file.
